


you think too much (of me)

by doveslayer



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Age Difference, Consensual Non-Consent, Consensual Underage Sex, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dubious Consent, First Time, Fuck Or Die, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn, Sex Pollen, Tony Angst, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-22
Updated: 2018-05-22
Packaged: 2019-05-10 03:20:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14728979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doveslayer/pseuds/doveslayer
Summary: “It is a standard sex pollen,” Friday says. “There is no antidote. Another party is required.”“Uh,” Tony says. Peter whimpers. He does his best to bat away the images that this conjures, not entirely successfully. “Parker, do you have a girlfriend?”Peter makes a faint noise.“Uh,” Tony says. “So, uh, girlfriend? Boyfriend? Person friend? Robot-turned human by a magic space rock with whom you share a special bond?”“Uh, Mr. Stark, no, I don’t, I mean, not since, and even if I did, uh, how would we even start to explain--” Peter starts, tears welling in his eyes.“Mr. Parker’s heart-rate is spiking,” Friday says.“Fuck me,” Tony says, to himself. Then, to Peter. “Okay, then. Fuck me.”





	you think too much (of me)

**Author's Note:**

> oh look, a conveniently dubious fuck-or-die scenario where an angsting Tony Stark can plausibly tell himself that the moral thing to do is have sex with Peter Parker! this is entirely porn, exactly what it says on the tin.

The patrol was a success, mostly, Tony tells himself. Iron Man and Spiderman, working brilliantly in tandem, have rescued Queens from this threat from a mad scientist. The villain was armed with some sort of evil cactus, which he threw at such an angle that it would have struck Iron Man’s armor and harmlessly bounced off it except that Peter Parker felt the need to interpose his body, so now they are sitting on a roof picking out the spines from Peter’s arm. Or rather, Peter is sitting on the roof picking out the spines and Tony is – hovering. Literally and metaphorically. But still, mostly a success. 

“FRIDAY, add suit reinforcements to my list,” Tony says. “Be careful next time, kid, you don’t want to develop the proportional powers of a cactus.”

“Mr. Stark?”

Tony freezes. The kid’s voice sounds – different. All the adjectives he would use to describe _how_ it is different are adjectives he has been trying to keep as far away from Peter Parker, _high school_ student, he reminds himself, _high school,_ eager and chipper and young, so young it hurts (and fantastically strong, and incredibly smart, and capable of stopping a bus with his bare hands)-- “What is it, Pete?” 

“I think I—” Peter swallows. Tony can hear it through the comm link. “I think maybe I –" He pulls off the mask, looking puzzled, and Tony notices that he is flushed and sweating.

“Friday, scan,” Tony says.

“I think there might have been something in the cactus, Mr. Stark,” Peter breathes, and – his voice is doing that thing again, it is breathy and sounds _ruined_ and – no, it doesn’t, it sounds some other way. Peter is a _teenager_. Tony is an _adult_. Peter’s pupils are fully dilated, Tony notes dispassionately; his breathing rate is elevated; there is a faint sheen of sweat on his brow. He makes a little noise of discomfort. 

“Are you feeling all right, kid?” Tony says.

“N-no, Mr. Stark,” Peter says, shaking his head.

“Friday, is this contagious?” Tony asks.

“Negative,” Friday says. 

Tony steps out of the suit and walks closer. 

“Mr. Stark, I – I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Peter says. He holds up one hand; the other is vaguely over his lap. Tony feels something plummet in his chest. It _can’t_ be.

“Friday, what is this?” Tony asks.

“It is plant-based,” Friday says, chipper. “And it is designed to create a potentially fatal feedback loop unless Mr. Parker attains sexual release.” 

“Oh my God,” Peter says, “like, sex pollen? What the fuck, who does that?”

“Some creep,” Tony says. He shudders. He tries very hard to keep looking Peter in the eyes, even though those eyes are now wide and dark and a little unfocused. Peter breaks the eye contact first. There is no mistaking what is going on with him; even the suit can’t conceal it. He shifts his weight a little bit and makes a sound that Tony desperately pretends not to have heard. "Friday, camouflage roof for privacy?" 

“Oh my God,” Peter says, shifting again. “Mr. Stark, I’m so sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about,” Tony says, trying for casual, “happens to the best of us. Occupational hazard. Look, uh—” Peter shifts again, presses his fist against his mouth to suppress another sound. Tony’s mouth is dry. He wishes he were in the suit. “Look, uh. Nothing to be ashamed of, you did nothing wrong, but in the interest of your health and safety I think you’d better go ahead and –” He gestures, not quite vaguely enough. “--attain your release.”

Peter’s eyes flicker shut. He reaches for the control to open his suit. Then halts. “What about you, Mr. Stark?”

“Me?” Tony freezes. “I will -- get out of your way. Uh, happy trails, and – bon voyage. Speed the plow, venture forth, go west, young man, just lie back and think of England. Or, I guess, something sexier than England. Australia?”

“Oh, _yeah_ ,” Peter grits out, “Australia.” The word comes out in a breathy sigh as his hand disappears theatrically into his suit. “ _Dingoes_.”

It’s supposed to be a joke, but it’s actually -- _extremely fucking_ _sexy_ , in a way Tony never expected the word dingoes to be (said by a _teenager_ , Tony, a kid whom you are supposed to be looking out for, for fuck’s sake). He tries not to freeze up, open-mouthed, goggling at the kid. He thinks he mostly succeeds. He summons the suit and jets off only one, maybe two noticeable beats too late. 

“Wait!” Peter calls out.

“I won’t go far,” Tony says. “Just trying to give you some privacy.”

“Please don’t, Mr. Stark,” Peter gasps. In the suit, Tony can close his eyes, take a deep inhale, get it _together,_ “go far, I mean, obviously I – ahhh – ” a choked-off moan that Tony will never be able to unhear; another one; a low drawn-out exhale – how was the suit a _worse_ idea? Every sound is amplified and every sound is fucking _obscene_ – “value my privacy but – oh, _fuck_ – sorry, Mr. Stark –” 

“You’re getting me confused with Steve Rogers,” Tony says, “I’m the Avenger who doesn’t give a shit if you curse.” He’s not sure if Peter even registers it. He’s lost in it now, emitting a steady litany of curses; ‘fuck’ punctuated with little broken gasps, each one landing like a jolt at the pit of Tony’s stomach. 

He wishes there were a way not to listen, but – he’s responsible for the kid’s safety, and if he can’t see or hear him, how can he be responsible? He thinks maybe this is a justification. But at least he is not looking. He is being an adult. Adult, Tony. Adult being the key word. And sure, Peter is gorgeous, and sure, Peter is funny, and sure, Peter is so much more than his age in so many ways, but – no. No. No should go without saying, but since it apparently doesn’t, _no_. No, Tony. He gets dosed with sex pollen and all you can think is, oh, _that’s_ what he sounds like, that’s the sound he makes when he touches himself, that’s the sound he would make if I --

He hears a sort of strangled noise and then a sigh, and then a puzzled grunt, and then Peter chokes out, “Mr. Stark?”

“Yeah?”

“I – uh – I’m sorry Mr. Stark, I don’t think that worked.”

“No?” Tony says, trying to keep his voice calm and dispassionate, trying not to imagine what Peter must look like (panting with his suit in a sticky pile beneath him and his hand on his) – “Friday?”

 “Self-induced release, it appears, does not mitigate the condition,” Friday says, “and in Mr. Parker’s case appears to have increased its intensity. His temperature is climbing.”

“Mr. Stark?” Peter asks. He sounds frightened. 

“Hang on,” Tony says. He flies back over. Parker’s sitting back on his haunches, suit half-off, shirtless, panting.

“Mr. Stark, I – it’s so much, I don’t think I can stop,” Peter says, and – is there a word for a wet dream that is also a nightmare? That is what Parker looks like, hand starting to work at himself again, flushed, his hair damp. Tony can see all of his abdominal muscles; they are surprisingly numerous. He’s biting his lower lip. He’s – a kid, Tony reminds himself. He’s so young. You’re old enough to be his father. There’s white fluid on his knuckles. Not web. 

“Still?” Tony asks. Peter nods, looking pained. 

“Friday, antidote?”

“It is a standard sex pollen,” Friday says. “There is no antidote. Another party is required into whom Mr. Parker’s DNA can be released.”

“Uh,” Tony says. Peter whimpers. He does his best to bat away the images that this conjures, not entirely successfully. “Parker, do you have a girlfriend?”

Peter makes a faint noise. Screws his eyes shut. Tony can’t help staring, just a moment, at the way his cock is working in and out of his fist. At least he’s in the suit, he consoles himself. Parker won’t see.

“Uh,” Tony says. “So, uh, girlfriend? Boyfriend? Person friend? Robot-turned human by a magic space rock with whom you share a special bond?”

Peter blinks up at him, opens his mouth for a second, then snaps it shut and goes crimson.

“What’s that?” Tony says, when no other sounds are forthcoming.

“Huh, Mr. Stark, no, I don’t, I mean, not since, and even if I did, uh, how would we even start to explain--” Peter starts, tears welling in his eyes.  

“Mr. Parker’s heart-rate is spiking,” Friday says.

“Fuck me,” Tony says, to himself. Then, to Peter. “Okay, then. Fuck me.” He steps out of the suit before he can force himself to think about what it is he’s doing.

“No way,” Peter says, “No way, Mr. Stark, I couldn’t ask you to—” He stops touching himself. Clenches his fists. Tries to stare defiantly at Tony. Tony can’t ignore the wince that follows, the way Peter’s gritting his teeth, the sweat that’s beading on his brow. “That’s not fair.” 

“Hey,” Tony says. Peter’s eyes are going soft and unfocused. Tony gets down on his level, leans in, cups Peter’s face in his hand. His face is burning up. “Hey. Peter. Hi.”

“Hi,” Peter says, faintly; his face feels so hot. There’s the trace of a tear on one cheek. Tony rubs at it with a thumb. “Mr. Stark, I couldn’t ask you—”

“Kid,” Tony says, “just be rational. Can you do that for me?” Peter is rubbing his face against Tony’s hand like a cat, Tony isn’t sure he realizes he’s doing it.

“That feels good,” Peter says, soft, “can you keep – can you keep touching—”

“Listen to me,” Tony says, and because it seems to help Peter (that _is_ why, he thinks, defiantly; it’s true but it feels like a lie) he pushes Peter’s damp hair out of his face, keeps tracing the thumb down his cheek, “I’m not letting anything happen to you, okay?”

“I know,” Peter says; his voice cracks a little; it’s like a fist clenching around Tony’s chest. “I know, Mr. Stark.” He winces again.

“Kid,” Tony says, it feels like the wrong word; he glances down at Peter’s clenched fists, “there’s no shame in doing anything that makes you feel better.” He expects Peter to start touching himself again; instead Peter straddles his leg, grinds hard against him, lets out a little choked sigh of relief. “—O-okay.”

“Sorry,” Peter says, immediately. 

“Don’t be,” Tony says. “But I’m afraid you’re going to encounter a welcoming party in just about a second and I apologize to you for that.” Peter grinds against him again, and this time Peter does encounter it, Tony’s dick hard and straining against his trousers; Tony makes a lopsided face in apology. “Please disregard,” he says. “You’re an extremely attractive young man and I’m not made of stone.” 

“No one expects you to be made of stone,” Peter says, half into his hand, “you’re _Iron_ Man.”

“Yeah,” Tony says, “well, not that, either.” 

What, he tries to think, would Steve Rogers do in this situation? Steve Rogers would not be in a situation like this, with the teenager he’s been trying so hard not to think wrong thoughts about grinding frantically against his thigh, all breathy moans and wide eyes and desperate raw need written all over him, moving against him like it’ll kill him not to. Not even metaphorically, Tony thinks. Then, I didn’t ask for this to happen – well, in dreams, maybe -- but, never like this, never for real.

“I think,” Peter says, thrusting against him again – the angle’s a little off, Tony’s other arm comes up to steady him without thinking, and then Peter’s just – humping his leg, if there were a more dignified word for it, but really, there isn’t – “I think I’m going to come again, Mr. Stark.”

“Peter,” Tony says, “I’m not sure that’s going to work.”

“It’s not just self-induced this time,” Peter mumbles; he keeps rubbing his face into Tony’s hand; somehow Tony’s thumb winds up in his mouth. 

When Peter peaks, Tony forgets not to look. His eyes squeeze shut and his lips purse and he almost sobs. Tony watches him, his chest rising and falling, his throat bobbing up and down. Tony holds him steady through it.

“Did it—” 

Peter winces by way of answer. “Oh God, Mr. Stark,” he gasps, “oh god, no, fuck – sorry – it’s not – I’m so hot.” He kicks the suit the rest of the way off. “Oh, fuck, oh fuck. I can’t do it, Mr. Stark. How is there – more?” His eyes fall shut. He is sobbing in earnest, nose running.

“Kid,” Tony says, grabbing his face in both hands this time. “Hey. Kid. Listen. There’s only one way out of this thing, and that’s what we’re going to do, okay?”

Peter swallows, visibly. He looks very young like this. Tony feels impossibly tender and impossibly dirty at the same time. “Okay,” Peter says. His voice sounds wrecked. “Okay, Mr. Stark.”

“Okay,” Tony says. He pulls Peter in for a hug. Peter keens a little, can’t help rubbing up against the erection that’s tenting the front of Tony’s slacks. Tony was trying to go for reassuring and protective but there’s nothing reassuring about having an armful of naked Peter Parker rubbing against him. “Listen, kid,” Tony says, in his ear, trying to keep his own voice detached; he isn’t succeeding. “I would do much weirder things to save your life, okay? No, scratch that, fucking you is not even that weird of a thing to do, it’s a privilege, quite frankly.” 

“Mr. Stark,” Peter says. “What if I hurt you?” 

 “Friday,” Tony says, “uh, lubricant, please.”

“The Iron Man suit has – lube?” Peter asks, a little of his personality peering out through the haze of heat and arousal, and Tony tries to give him a reassuring smirk. Peter smiles back. It’s wide and open and still so _Peter_ that it feels like a hand has reached into Tony’s chest, wrapped around the ghost of the arc reactor, squeezed.

“The Iron Man suit has _everything_ ,” Tony says, trying to keep it light. “What do you take me for?”

“Genius billionaire playboy inventor Tony Stark,” Peter says, eyes half shut, grinning a little, “who’s saved the world like six times.”

“But who’s counting,” Tony says. “You feel pretty hot. Friday, can we do something about that?” 

“Negative,” Friday says.

“I’m okay,” Peter says.

“Next time let the cactus hit me,” Tony says. “I mean it. This is not what you signed up for.” 

“It’s okay, Mr. Stark,” Peter says, trying to sound brave, and Tony feels the hand in his chest squeeze tighter at the thought that Peter is trying to console him. “I’m fine, really. I just feel bad that you have to – you shouldn’t have to do it with someone you don’t want—”

“Hey,” Tony says. “Hey. Look at me.” There is no good answer to this, he thinks. There is no way out of this with your entire soul intact. You can say, no, kid, I don’t, but I’m not letting you die, but Peter already looks so soft and broken and somehow – you’re so fucked up, Tony, he thinks – it feels _worse_ to not enjoy it, to fuck the kid like it’s a painful duty, like Peter is some grenade he’s throwing himself on to save the populace at large. But the other option, to say, are you fucking kidding me, Peter Parker, look at yourself, I want to fuck you so much it hurts and that was even before I knew what _sounds_ you made – to have Peter know that, if he makes it out -- When, he thinks, not if. 

Peter is looking at him, still touching himself, breath coming in little gasps, his face red and blotchy. “Mr. Stark?”

“Idowantyou,” Tony says, all in one exhale, it sounds as guilty as he feels; he thinks that way Peter will know it’s true. “Not just now. I know I shouldn’t, but – shouldn’t and don’t are not the same.”

“For real?” Peter says. He’s still flushed and looks in pain but also like he’s just gotten the best news, a big fat envelope with the MIT logo on it, maybe. “Oh my God, for real?”

This, Tony thinks, feeling giddy, feeling his own pulse start to speed up, feeling himself start to smile, this is exactly what you were trying to avoid.

“For real?” Peter asks. “Wait, for real, Mr. Stark? Because I’ve – wanted you for – oh my God– for ages.“

“I suspected,” Tony says. He tries to keep it light. “I mean, who could blame you? I am Tony Stark.”

“Why didn’t you—" 

“You’re a minor,” Tony says, “come on, what was I supposed—"

“But now you kind of have to,” Peter says, getting that glint in his eye that always betokens mischief, that always makes Tony go a little weak.

“This is an extraordinary circumstance,” Tony says. “I don’t think anyone could fault us for what’s about to happen.” He hopes. He’s already faulting himself. 

Peter’s hand stops moving. “Mr. Stark, please, can we do this, like, for real?” Peter says.

“We’re going to,” Tony says, shucking off his suit jacket. His hands start working at his belt. 

“I mean,” Peter says. He writhes a little. Tony doesn’t bother averting his gaze. “I mean, like we would if we were really, I mean, with, with kissing and, and stuff?”

“And stuff?” Tony mocks, because he can’t not.

“Yeah,” Peter says, “like, _all_ the stuff,” and fuck if it doesn’t sound incredibly sexy. And then Peter goes for it, goes in for the kiss. He shuts his eyes, presses his mouth against Tony’s with a kind of gasp of relief, and – Tony gives up. Tony kisses him, hard. The way he would kiss Peter if Peter weren’t real and beautiful and capable of being broken and _a kid_ , goddammit, Tony -- the way he would kiss Peter all the time if he could know it wouldn’t ruin him; hard and selfish and _thirsty_. Peter kisses back, a little dazed at first, then Peter’s got both hands around his waist, is fucking _clawing_ his pants off – they actually tear off in his hands, like this is some sort of bodice ripper, and Tony can’t stifle a high-pitched giggle.

“Sorry,” Peter says. “Sorry, oh my god, sorry.” 

“Don’t apologize, kid,” Tony says, “that was fucking _hot,”_ and leans in and kisses him again. Peter is trying to say something, he can’t make it out, it sounds like ‘I thought Iron Man’s pants were stronger.’ Tony doesn’t let him get it out. Peter grabs Tony’s hand and drags it down towards his crotch. It’s feverishly hot; Peter gasps in relief when Tony gets a hand on his cock.  

“Fuck,” Peter says, throwing his head back; Tony kisses his neck, “that feels amazing.”

“Don’t get distracted,” Tony says, “we have other plans for this, remember?” 

“I remember,” Peter says, and he sounds both devastated and cocky. “Mr. Stark, this feels – so much better. Why weren’t you touching me the whole time?” 

“Um, _centuries_ of moral teaching,” Tony supplies, starting to get a feel for the rhythm, “is that how you – faster, slower? Tighter?”

“Faster,” Peter breathes. “No, wait, that’s too good, slow down-- of course you’re even better at this than I thought you would be—” 

Tony has to shut his eyes for a second, inhale, exhale. It’s hard to try to ground himself and think non-incriminating thoughts when he’s burying his face in the flushed neck of the teenager he’s trying to think non-incriminating thoughts about. Tony doesn’t succeed. “You thought about this?” 

“Duh,” Peter says. “You’re still not naked, why are you not naked?” He tugs pointedly at the waistband of Tony’s boxers.

“Hey,” Tony says, “easy there, Spiderling.” He steps out of them. Peter grins.

“Better,” Peter says. Peter’s eyes are still a little unfocused, pupils wide, but Tony can feel the heat of his gaze. It’s strange to be stared at like this by Peter, so openly. He stares back. Peter’s all smooth skin and lean muscle, more of it than Tony had dared to picture. Not that he’d thought about it. Much. He traces a finger down Peter’s abs.

“Fuck,” Tony says, “you’re gorgeous.”

“Thanks, Mr. Stark,” Peter says, preening slightly, “you’re not bad yourself.” He puts his arms around Tony’s waist, pulls him closer. Tony always forgets how effortlessly strong he is; he nearly loses his balance. Peter holds him steady, his hands slip lower, actually palm his ass. Tony groans in an unexpected mixture of arousal and frustration. His erection twitches against Peter’s thigh.

“So,” he says, into Peter’s throat; it’s still feverishly hot, but not as bad as before, somehow, “we doing this, kid?”

“Fuck yeah,” Peter says. He somehow sounds _chipper_. “Where’s the lube?”

Tony gestures vaguely. Peter pulls away, fumbles around until he finds it. He waves it cheerfully.

“Should we—” Tony says, gesturing at the pile of clothes, “on a flat surface, maybe?”

“What if,” Peter says, striding to the edge of the roof and pointing, “th-this wall is a flat surface, right? From a certain point of view?”

Tony blinks. Blinks again.

“Mr. Stark?” 

“I’m sorry,” Tony says, “but I could have sworn you just suggested it would be easier to fuck me up against that wall?”

 Peter, surprisingly, doesn’t look sheepish. Pats the wall. “Yeah,” he says, “kind of, yes.” 

“Kid,” Tony says. “Don’t get me wrong, that sounds fucking hot, but you’re running a raging temperature here with the ol’ sex pollen, and if you collapse—” 

“Please?” Peter says, like he’s asking for something innocent and age-appropriate like a ride in a sports car or five more minutes of lab time and not _wall-sex_. “Come on, please? This whole scenario is so screwed up but if I can say my first time was fucking Tony Stark up against a wall, like, I feel like it’ll all be _worth_ it, and also maybe the peak of my existence in some ways?”

“Wouldn’t want you to peak too soon,” Tony says, and then it hits him, “hold up, record scratch, freeze frame, _first_ time?”

Peter nods stiffly. Swallows. He looks suddenly young again in a way that makes Tony’s chest ache. “Yeah, technically, first,” he says, “but I mean, I masturbate, like, a lot.”

“Pete,” Tony says. “I’m so sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Peter says. 

“I have everything to be sorry for,” Tony says. He takes several steps closer. “I’m sorry I let this happen to you, I’m sorry I didn’t protect you, I’m sorry you didn’t get to choose how and when this happened—”

Peter looks near tears again. “Please don’t say you’re sorry it’s you, Mr. Stark,” he says, his voice sounds small, “because I’m not sorry, and I don’t want you to be sorry.” 

“I’m not,” Tony says. It should be a comforting lie; it’s the truth. He rests his forehead against Peter’s. Peter feels hot again, just as hot as before. “I should be. But I’m not.”

“Good,” Peter says. “Sorry I’m crying.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Tony says. He kisses Peter, gently, reassuring; Peter melts into it. He’s shivering. There’s already a raw patch on his chin where Tony’s goatee has rubbed it the wrong way.

“So can we?” Peter says. “The way I want?”

Tony has never been able to say no to those eyes, and he is not going to start now. “Okay,” he says. “Let’s get me ready, then, shall we?”

Peter nods. Tony leans up against the wall. Peter steps nearer and hooks one of Tony’s legs up around his waist, leans in and kisses him, searchingly, while he’s doing it.

“Careful,” Tony says, “I’m not the flexible one.”

“Is this okay?” Peter asks. He pours out some lube over his fingers, spills some of it on Tony’s knee. Tony tries to relax. It’s all a lot. It’s all so much. Peter’s lube-slick finger finds his entrance and pushes timidly at it; Peter’s biting his lip in concentration, brow furrowed. Tony pushes some damp hair out of his face.

“Yeah,” he says, “you’re doing so good, kid.”

Peter keeps going. His fingers are thin, shapely; he has beautiful hands; it’s funny to think now that whenever Tony admires his fingers from now on, as Peter is scribbling down notes or shooting webbing, he’ll know where they’ve been, that they’ve been _inside_ him, touched this part of him.

“You’re thinking,” Peter says, “Your face is doing the thing it does when you’re thinking. Maybe don’t think?”

Tony will have to examine this later, that Peter has catalogued his expressions so carefully. “Was just thinking,” he admits, and his voice is unsteady, it’s strange saying it out loud, “about your hands.”

“Stop thinking,” Peter says. Peter has a third finger in him and it suddenly brushes against something that makes Tony gasp. Peter twists his fingers. Tony’s whole body shivers. 

“Good luck with that, kid,” Tony breathes, but the words all run together in something more like a moan, “when do I ever stop thinking?” 

“Now,” Peter says, with more confidence than he can possibly feel, withdrawing his fingers and applying more lube to his cock. He looks Tony in the eyes – Tony can tell it’s supposed to be sexy and intense, and it mostly is – and then Peter has hefted him under the arms, lifted him higher on the wall so Tony has to hook his legs around Peter’s waist to anchor himself, and – fuck, okay, it is possible for Tony to stop thinking. It is very possible. 

“Okay,” Tony says, “you win.” He settles with his arms around Peter’s neck. They’re both covered in sweat already; it’s so close. It feels more intimate than anything Tony can remember. He hopes Peter’s legs won’t give out. “You okay?”

“I’m not going to drop you,” Peter says, “but can you help me—”

Tony understands what he means. He helps Peter find the angle, lowers himself with painstaking slowness onto Peter’s cock. They both are breathing hard.

 “You good?” he asks again; Peter shudders; he can feel how feverish the kid is from the inside now.

“Can I?” Peter asks.

“Anything,” Tony says. Peter pulls back, pushes in again, starts to find a rhythm. Tony’s back rubs against bricks; it is going to be raw later; he could not care less. He feels – strangely safe, braced between Parker and the wall. Peter’s eyes are lowered, face pressed into Tony’s shoulder. It is clearly a feat of tremendous concentration. Peter shifts him like it’s no effort at all, manages to find a better angle. 

“Yeah,” Tony says. “There. Pete, fuck, you’re doing amazing.”

Peter looks up at him. “Am I doing good, Mr. Stark?” he asks, and the contrast between how his body has found this confident new rhythm and is driving into Tony now, at just the right angle, and how unsure he still manages to sound – drives Tony over the edge, and he is coming, body clenching around Peter.

“Fuck,” Tony says, “sorry, you’re my hair-trigger, kid.”

“Don’t apologize,” Peter says, “ _Mr. Stark_ ,” and there’s something _knowing_ in the expression. Peter speeds up the pace; Tony’s back is going to be a mass of bruises; he is going to cherish them all individually. He drives his hips down to meet Peter’s thrusts; he lets his eyes fall shut; he feels raw and open and armorless; he is saying something; he is not even sure what it is, only that it is complimentary and obscene. “Sorry, my vocabulary is taking a turn for the Anglo-Saxon, fuck.” 

“Do _not_ apologize,” Peter says, pants really, into his neck, “it is so fucking hot that I even get to hear you like this. I’m going to--”

“Please,” Tony says. “Come for me, kid.”

Their eyes meet. Peter’s gaze is still a little unfocused but it still manages to be strangely warm and familiar. Tony has fucked plenty of people in his time. But this is – he feels more vulnerable than he can explain, not just the position he’s in, but – everything. He has to shut his eyes. As he does he can feel Peter’s release inside him. Peter staggers a little but doesn’t drop him; Peter buries his head in Tony’s shoulder. Exhales.

“Wow,” Peter says. When he looks up his eyes are sharp and – a little dazed, but they look like him again. His skin feels clammy but not burning. “I think that did it.”

“I should hope so,” Tony says. They slide down the wall together in an uncoordinated heap. Peter leans in for a kiss. Tony lets him. They kiss lazily for a few moments, his tongue foraying into Peter’s mouth; Peter’s mouth loose and slack and soft; his fingers in Peter’s hair, bodies still tangled together. 

“Wow,” Peter says, again. 

“Satisfactory?” Tony asks.

Peter nods enthusiastically.  

Tony can’t resist kissing his shoulder. “You’re a Spider- _man_ now.”

Peter laughs. Tony can feel the laugh in his whole body. Peter finally extricates himself. Stretches. Yawns. He looks wrung out but cheerful. He looks like himself. Tony waits for the panic to set in. This is when the panic is supposed to set in, he thinks, or the guilt. He wonders which will come first. His back is already complaining.  

“Hey,” Peter says, cocking his head to one side. “You’re thinking again.”

“Sorry,” Tony says. “Occupational hazard, kid.”

“Can you not?” Peter says. “For a little bit?”

“We can’t sit here and bask in the afterglow forever,” Tony points out, pragmatically. “People will be wanting to use this roof at some point.”

“Fine,” Peter says. He reaches a hand to pull Tony up. Tony takes it, doesn’t budge yet. “You hungry?”

Tony ponders. “I could demolish some pancakes,” he says. “There’s supposed to be a good place on Fourteenth. Just serves pancakes, I think. Some hipster thing, pancakes that were raised in humane conditions on a farm. Pancakes that were afforded every possible cultural opportunity. Pancakes you can eat with a clear conscience.”

“Pancakes with a clear conscience,” Peter says, shooting him a pointed look that Tony thinks he can read, just barely. It manages to be both earnest and suggestive.  “I like the sound of that, Mr. Stark.” 

“Yeah,” Tony says. He wonders what things will be like between them now. If he's saved Peter or ruined him. Or both. Or neither. He can tell what Peter thinks. If he were a better man, maybe, he would not let his brain hope that Peter is right. He lets Peter pull him to his feet. “Okay.”


End file.
